Archive for the '22 Years Old' Category

Twenty-Two Year Old – Edward Ashburnham

It happened that the Ashburnhams had never seen any of the Powys girls, though whenever the four parents met in London, Edward Ashburnham was always of the party. He was at that time twenty-two and, I believe, almost in pure in mind as Leonora herself. It is odd how a boy can have his virgin intelligence untouched in this world.

That was partly due to the careful handling of his mother, partly due to the fact that the house to which he went at Winchester had a particularly pure tone and partly to Edward’s own peculiar aversion from anything like coarse language or gross stories. At Sandhurst he had just kept out of the way of that sort of thing. He was keen on soldiering, keen on mathematics, on land-surveying, on politics and, by a queer warp of his mind, on literature. Even when he was twenty-two he would pass hours reading one of Scott’s novels or the chronicles of Froissart.

Mrs Ashburnham considered that she was to be congratulated, and almost every week she wrote to Mrs Powys, dilating upon her satisfaction.

Then, one day, taking a walk down Bond Street with her son, after having been at Lord’s, she noticed Edward suddenly turn his head round to take a second look at a well-dressed girl who had passed them. She wrote about that, too, to Mrs Powys, and expressed some alarm. It had been, on Edward’s part, the merest reflex action. He was so very abstracted at that time owing to the pressure his crammer was putting on him that he certainly hadn’t known what he was doing.

Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier

Published in: 22 Years Old | on January 30th, 2010 | No Comments »

Twenty-Two Year Old – Rosemary Hoyt

 

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When they were still limbs and feet and clothes, struggles of his arms and back, and her throat and breasts, she whispered, “No, not now – these things are rhythmic.”

Disciplined, he crushed his passion into a corner of his mind, but bearing up her fragility on his arm until she was poised half a foot above him, he said, lightly:

“Darling – that doesn’t matter.”

Her face had changed with his looking up at it; there was the eternal moonlight in it.

“That would be poetic justice if it should be you,” she said. She twisted away from him, walked to the mirror, and boxed her disarranged hair with her hands. Presently she drew a chair close to the bed and stroked his cheek.

“Tell me the truth about you,” he demanded.

“I always have.”

“In a way – but nothing hangs together.”

They both laughed but he pursued.

“Are you actually a virgin?”

“No-o-o!” she sang. “I’ve slept with six hundred and forty men – if that’s the answer you want.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Do you want me for a case in psychology?”

“Looking at you as a perfectly normal girl of twenty-two, living in the year nineteen twenty-eight, I guess you’ve taken a few shots at love.”

“It’s all been –  abortive,” she said.

 F.Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

Published in: 22 Years Old | on January 30th, 2010 | No Comments »